


circumstances

by wallakihyun



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Office, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Fashion Magazine AU, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, art editor wonho, hyungwon the former model turned fashion editor, hyunwoo is a beauty editor because lipstick prince, i could just title this whole thing bickering, this sort of really sucks?, two-way misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 00:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallakihyun/pseuds/wallakihyun
Summary: It doesn't take long for Hyungwon to start being haunted by the image of Wonho's lips, bitten down, pursed around the drawing pen in his hand.In which Chae Hyungwon the fashion editor finds himself in unusual circumstances with art editor Shin Wonho. Repeatedly.





	circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is terrible
> 
> 2) HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ FRIEND V WHO THIS IS WRITTEN FOR!!!! I HOPE THIS MAKES YOU HAPPY. I'm planning on finishing by May :)
> 
> Much thanks @ other friend M for helping me through this, she's amazing.

There’s noise, movement, _too_ much movement all around him, Hyungwon thinks as he leans back awkwardly into his office chair (new) and taps his pen against the metal of his desk (also new, and significantly cheaper than his last one. Hyungwon can tell this project is going to be the absolute worst already). A headache thunders through what seems like his entire being, and he groans out a few choice expletives, wincing every time he’s subject to the hurried taps of shoes against the floor and the horrid tearing sounds as cardboard boxes are ripped open.

 

Hyungwon shouldn’t have let himself be talked into drinking out last night. Except the talking-into had been provided by an annoyingly insistent journalist who, in Hyungwon’s professional opinion, is impossible to shut up. Ever. He had worked on the same team as Lee Minhyuk, a relatively new hire, for a year, and Minhyuk was either clacking loudly at his keyboard (the senior photographer and Hyungwon had decided once, talking lowly over chalky coffee in the breakroom, that Minhyuk was most definitely doing it on purpose) or jabbering a mile a minute into someone’s ear. Hyungwon had figured out very early in his Minhyuk-withstanding career to either acquiesce to the word machine’s demands or run away. As fast as humanly possible.

 

Except yesterday, when Minhyuk zeroed in on Hyungwon and chose him as his next target, Hyungwon - and all of the members of the new team - were in a meeting room in front of their boss. The meeting, on the new project (bullshit, in Hyungwon’s opinion) that Hyungwon had no choice but to offer his labor for (he can’t really afford to lose his job), had just ended, and Minhyuk demanded that _we should get to know each other_ and _every member of the team should come out with me for some drinks!_ (as if they didn’t all know each other in some way or another already, really). In a horrid moment Hyungwon found himself agreeing (he couldn’t exactly tell Minhyuk to fuck himself and run away screaming like he wanted to - _his boss was right there_ , smiling encouragingly as he adjusted his belt over his rather unfortunate beer belly), and the last thing he remembers, if he really tries to think about it, is giving one of the poor, nameless interns a drunk earful about insecticides and the imminent demise of the world. Or maybe he also remembers being pushed into a car, a very crabby, short PR manager at the wheel. Maybe he remembers cackling something vaguely similar to “ _shrimp, shrimp, you’re a shrimp, shrimp!”_ and getting punched in the arm, too.

 

Maybe Hyungwon should stop remembering now.

 

His headache pounds into his skull to the beat of something that resembles Turkish March and he thinks he hears Minhyuk’s shrill tones somewhere in the background. That’s Hyungwon’s signal to work—looking idle is practically _begging_ for a torture session with Minhyuk. And so he fumbles as he reaches to turn on his desktop, running a hand through his dark hair and tugging a little, seeking some relief for the headache.

 

He’s in the middle of trying to reset his password, as company protocol dictates they should, when he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t bother looking up—Chae Hyungwon takes his passwords _seriously,_ yes sir. Elegance, diligence, and sophistication are key, and it takes a lot of brainpower to get them absolutely perfect.

 

“Ahem.” Someone is behind him, waiting, Hyungwon notes with a flicker of annoyance. Probably the intern—the one with the nose, he thinks, he can’t be bothered to remember names just yet—here with the files he had requested (or shouted for, really) as he stumbled into the office and over the cardboard strewn across the floor.

 

Moving his jaw causes Hyungwon’s headache to reverberate like a ping-pong ball bouncing against the bone of his skull. So he simply grunts, waving a hand in acknowledgement.

 

“Here’s the papers you asked Chan—”

 

Ah, so it _is_ the intern. Hyungwon taps at his keyboard absentmindedly, thoughts still focused on his all-important password. “Mm. Leave it on the desk.”

 

Hyungwon can’t fucking think because of the damn headache—he should’ve gone for some hangover soup this morning, but he was running late. Maybe coffee will do. Three coffees.

 

“Hey, you,” he adds, “Get me some coffee, will you?” One thing he loves about working in the office: interns like personal servants, willing and expected to kiss your ass by doing your menial work for you. It’s great. Lets you focus on the important things, like setting a new password.

 

Hyungwon hears something that resembles an amused—or disbelieving—snort, but he doesn’t think much of it because his phone is ringing now, and _fuck,_ even moving his damn _arm_ to reach for the phone triggers his headache to shriek like a newborn baby. Or maybe like Minhyuk. “Yes, Mr. Yoon?”

  
  
  
  
  


He’s settled back into his chair, phone call with one of the assistant editors over and on the verge of a breakthrough with his password quest of the morning, when there’s a tap on his shoulder.

 

Hyungwon is annoyed—he was just in the middle of deciding which Arctic Monkeys song to choose as the third to be placed in the rather long string of characters. He grunts again. It’s a little rude, but Hyungwon never had a nice reputation anyway, and goddamn does talking _hurt_.

 

“Your coffee is here, _sir_ ,” a voice drawls, a hint of tinkling laughter in the words.

 

Hyungwon looks over his shoulder at the figure towering above him, styrofoam cup in hand, and the first thing he notices is the glaring lack of nose.

 

Well. Not that this man, black hair mussed up perfectly (it would take Hyungwon like, an hour of styling to achieve that) and lopsided grin curling his plush lips upward, lacks a nose. It’s a very nice nose, in fact, fascinating and scrunched up.

 

No, the nose is very pretty, but it’s not _the_ nose, the big, impressive nose that is the only thing that Hyungwon remembers about the intern he met yesterday. In fact, this nose might belong to someone else. Someone Hyungwon knows quite well.

 

It takes a moment for his coffee-deprived, hungover brain to process, but he pieces together the eyeliner and the elvish ears and the defined, shapely figure not-so-hidden under a tight white shirt and—oh. _Oh._

 

The man standing in front of him, snickering and grinning and offering the coffee in his hand almost tauntingly to Hyungwon, just might be his co-editor. The person who has joint responsibility of the project with Hyungwon. The man who, as he finally decides Hyungwon is going to continue his inner meltdown and places the coffee on his desk instead, is on equal standing with him in terms of _respect_ and _office politics_ and all that bullshit, Hyungwon remembers with a wince.

 

Wonho, the art editor, seats his ass on the edge of Hyungwon’s desk and stretches his legs. “Not even a thank you? For all my hard work? I thought I’d left my coffee run days behind, you know.” He laughs again, amused where he should be offended, and it stirs a hint of frustration inside Hyungwon. Everything is wrong about this, and Hyungwon’s brain is confused. Confused because Wonho is supposed to be offended yet he’s laughing like he’s in on some joke, and confused because while his mind frantically works to come up with an acceptable remedy to his faux pas, it also can’t stop staring at Wonho’s ass in those tight jeans, perched on the metal of Hyungwon’s desk.

 

Which. Which he’s going to categorically ignore, because Hyungwon has no idea what the _fuck_ to make of that thought, or his persistent tendency toward ogling Wonho’s body, even when they worked on different teams.

 

“I—” Hyungwon stutters, wincing. “I really thought you were an intern, I didn’t mean--”

 

“Oh, _baby,_ ” Wonho purrs—entirely unprofessional yet entirely _Wonho_ —still that amusement interwoven in his voice. Hyungwon is _really_ annoyed. “It’s okay, I would love to be your personal coffee attendant. What do the kids call it these days? The class shuttle?” He shrugs and gestures toward Hyungwon. “The Chae Hyungwon shuttle.”

 

Hyungwon slumps in his chair and swivels around fully to face Wonho. “No, really, it was a mistake,” he groans. “I thought you were,” He pauses, racking his brain for the name of the intern. “I thought you were the kid with, you know, the nose—”

 

“Changkyun,” Wonho supplies. “You’d better start learning the names, babe. Doesn’t make for great team unity and shit when you won’t even bother to do that much.”

 

“Changkyun,” he nods, heating up in a bit of shame—as much shame as the cool, disinterested, _impressive_ Hyungwon, an image he’s had perfected since his model days, can have—“I thought you were Changkyun. Asked him for the social media reports this morning and I just assumed he was here to bring them.”

 

Wonho just nods. “Mhm. I understand.” It’s a disbelieving tone, and Hyungwon is _really very_ annoyed now. How much is it going to take for Wonho to stop this amused and effortless destruction of Hyungwon’s office reputation? Really.

 

“Completely reasonable, though I must say—I was looking forward to working on this project with the esteemed editor Chae Hyungwon, I didn’t expect to be able to get the honor to serve him _coffee._ ” He shakes his head in mock wonder, lets a giggle escape. He’s _really_ enjoying it, the cheeky bastard. “Not even in my wildest dreams.”

 

He huffs exasperatedly. “I’m serious, I thought you were Changkyun, Wonho, oh my god.” It comes out louder than his tender, hungover head can withstand. The ping-pong headache roars its head, reverberating with a forceful intensity in his skull. Hyungwon eyes the coffee—he _really_ needs it. As much as he really needs Wonho to shut his mouth and get his ass off Hyungwon’s desk.

 

Wonho traces Hyungwon’s gaze toward the coffee. “It’s okay, Hyungwon. Drink it,” he urges. Won’t wipe that stupid smirk off his face, Hyungwon notes with displeasure. “I’m serious, you look like you need it.” He jumps off the desk then, leaning over and placing a hand on Hyungwon’s shoulder. “You got like, _really_ wasted last night. Talked Changkyun’s ear off. Poor boy probably had nightmares about your monster insecticides.”

 

Hyungwon’s lips are already around the rim of the cup when his mind processes the words, so he can’t exactly roar in frustration or tell Wonho to fuck off or curse Minhyuk for making them go to that stupid fucking gathering. He settles for a squinty glare instead, but Wonho laughs, breathy and too delightful for the situation they’re in. “Oh, babe, you know I only tease you because you make it so easy, don’t you?” He pats his shoulder again and Hyungwon shrugs him off. He will _not_ be patronized by this narcissistic pretty boy who seems to always want to ignore Hyungwon’s chic and sophisticated facade,  seems to always want to rile him up like a kid. “You’re cute when you’re hungover and nonfunctioning.”

 

Hyungwon almost chokes in indignation at that, but Wonho turns away with another laugh and he’s gone, a gleeful stride in his step as he heads to the other side of the office floor, by the time Hyungwon has gulped down his coffee.

  
  


Considering his hangover and the entirely unnecessary debacle with Wonho, Hyungwon has had a fairly productive morning. He’d finally set his password—he was entirely pleased with the password that he had chosen after much deliberation—and drank a second coffee, one that he got for himself this time. Hyungwon had even been able to meet with the team’s PR manager about the app that is the focus of Hyungwon’s—and Wonho’s—project team. Yoo Kihyun, a short, perpetually frustrated man who seemed to Hyungwon like a tightly wound ball of anger and stress and perfectionism. He is brazen, _damn_ good at his job, and a bit of an insufferable prick, in Hyungwon’s professional opinion.

 

He’d only had to suffer a relatively minimal amount of glaring for what Hyungwon presumed was his _shrimp_ comment the night before, to his eternal relief. He’d like to forget all details, drunk diatribes on insecticides and vaguely insulting songs about seafood included. Kihyun had simply adjusted his glasses, ran a frustrated hand through his sandy brown hair (with a rather attractive undercut that had definitely not been there last week), and shoved a stack of graphs at Hyungwon before launching into a mile-a-minute lecture.

 

He might not have been paying attention entirely, but that’s okay, Hyungwon thinks now as he sinks back into his desk chair. He’s doing quite well today, considering the circumstances.

 

The _circumstances_ passes by his desk then, as he reaches for a sticky note message left on his computer screen, and winks. “Hey, Hyungwon. Would you like me to bring you some coffee?”

 

Hyungwon lets out a frustrated sigh. “Really, now?”

 

Wonho just laughs as he turns a corner, and Hyungwon’s mood, which had just begun to brighten, takes a dip.

 

Honestly, Hyungwon is a _very_ chill person. Very. Under normal conditions. But there’s something about Shin Wonho that stirs a deep-seated annoyance in him. It’s not that he hates Wonho—he’s a good person, great at his work, sufficiently relaxed and affable. He has a way of putting people at ease, or making them blush profusely, depending on how much of his signature charm he throws into the mix.

 

No, what Hyungwon is annoyed at isn’t really Wonho himself—it’s his teasing. And the way he can get Hyungwon all riled up with a few choice words, and the way he just _takes_ it with a sweet smile whenever Hyungwon is borderline rude or snarky to him in return.

 

Well. Hyungwon supposes their circumstances are quite unusual. They aren’t just co-workers, really, although Hyungwon tries not to think about it most days.

  
  
  


The first time Hyungwon came face-to-face with Shin Wonho was at his first official debate tournament in high school. He cringes to think of his fifteen-year-old self, a hot headed, conceited kid who thought he was better than everyone else on the basis of the books that he read (that he now finds insufferably erudite—still has a soft spot for Dostoevsky, though, he admits), the alternative music he listened to, and his pretty face.

 

And Hyungwon _was_ better than a lot of people, really. He was quite smart, he thinks. Smart enough to absolutely _trounce_ Wonho when they competed against each other at the very same tournament. And pretty enough to sign a modeling contract at seventeen, a job where he didn’t even really have to try and there were still praises, showering him.

 

In all honesty, Hyungwon had gone in expecting to win, but he hadn’t expected Wonho, with his pretty clothes and his soft gaze and relaxed demeanor, to put up such a fight. He was _good,_ magnetic, charismatic where Hyungwon was stiff and vicious. He was very good. Hyungwon was good too, extremely so. _It_ was good, the tournament, left Hyungwon feeling euphoric and lightheaded and satiated, and when Wonho walked up to him afterwards, lopsided smile and hand outstretched, Hyungwon grasped it. Tightly. Looked into Wonho’s eyes with an intensity that was probably too much for what the situation required, and looked too long, too, so long that Wonho raised his eyebrows and his smile morphed into a grin, more delighted than polite.

 

“Hope I’ll see you ‘round here again, Chae.”

 

They did see each other again. Many times, in the same tournaments and circuits and district levels. At least five or six times a year.

 

Hyungwon’s relationship with Wonho was something he couldn’t really put into words, really, the closest thing he could come up with was the manifestation of the concept of a liminal space, except in a relationship instead of a location. They didn’t exchange many words besides formalities--there was no time to, in the buzz and frantic activity of the tournaments.

 

There was something there, though, something tangible and magnetic, something that made them hyperaware of each other. Or at least, it made Hyungwon hyperaware of Wonho’s presence for reasons he couldn’t really understand; aware of Wonho’s lingering gaze and his smiles and the warmth of his hand when he shook it.

 

But then Hyungwon was scouted by a stiff-mannered man in a suit outside his high school a couple of months into his second year. _We saw the advertisement you filmed for your school_ , they had said when he went to the agency's building that evening, parents in tow. _We’d love it if you would consider joining our agency_ . Part time gigs, nothing more than school uniform shoots and tutoring academy advertisements at first, but Hyungwon was handsome and modelesque and perfect for the job, as his manager put it, so the scale of his work grew.

  
Hyungwon found himself engrossed in the work, enticed by the glamour and the easy praises and the thrill of the fashion, the art. It was intuitive, second nature to him, and it was almost too easy to quit debate and his literature club and find himself at modeling gigs every afternoon and on the weekends. _Ironic_ , he thinks sometimes. How the most snotty scholarly kid had elected to pursue the most superficial profession.

  
After he had quit debate he never saw Wonho again. And then Hyungwon forgot about him, gradually. And then Hyungwon had to juggle first college entrance exams with his budding modeling career, and next his gruesome classes in his fashion major with the incessant shoots and frustration and ennui.

  
And then Hyungwon quit modeling at age twenty, deep in the pits of exhaustion and disillusionment with what modeling offered him—or rather, _didn't_ offer him.

  


  
"And then we'll go and grab some dinner? That fine?"

 

It’s late afternoon and Hyungwon’s headache has receded into a dull throb. He glances up from the papers strewn across his desk, absentmindedly twirling a pen in his hand.

 

Seulgi stands a few feet away from Hyungwon, running a hand through her hair and tugging it as she nods at Hyunwoo. Hyungwon knows Seulgi, a social media manager, well enough to recognize the telltale sign of her stress. He grimaces. It’s been a hectic day for them all, setting up to work on the damn project.

 

“We’ll go somewhere to get seafood,” Seulgi decides. “Maybe that place Bora took us last month, near the office? It was pretty good.” Hyunwoo hums in affirmation, and Seulgi glances at Hyungwon. “Hey, Hyungwon. Wanna come with us?”

 

Hyungwon groans. “Honestly, Seulgi, after last night, I really don’t want to go out for the next two months.”

 

“Oh, come on, you’re so antisocial,” Seulgi whines, “It’s just _dinner,_ we’re not going to get wasted on a fucking Tuesday night. Also,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Seafood. Meaning shrimp. Meaning the only thing you would die for in this world.”

 

“You have a point,” Hyungwon concedes. His mouth waters already at just the mention of shrimp, and if he didn’t like Seulgi so much he would _hate_ her for knowing so much about him and using his weaknesses against him. “Ugh. Who’re you going with?” But it doesn’t matter, really, because Hyungwon is a weak specimen and is already leaning over his keyboard to save files on his computer and log out.

 

“Just Hyunwoo here,” Seulgi gestures to the towering beauty editor beside her. Hyunwoo looks up from the phone in his hand and nods in acknowledgement. “And Jooheon. He’s the intern beauty assistant. Does that meet your criteria?” Seulgi asks, grinning lightly.

 

“Mm.” Hyungwon likes Hyunwoo too, at the very least for the fact that he doesn’t exibit the propensity to jabber away incessantly and annoyingly. And the intern kid can’t be too much of a harm. “I’ll go.”

  
  
  


They’re not even halfway through ordering food when their waitress decides to turn on the charm and seduce Hyungwon. Seulgi nearly cackles when she sees the first signs, the waitress’s top button of her shirt casually coming undone, hair flicked over her shoulder, expression melting into what probably is supposed to be doe eyes but ends up seeming like a discomforting haze to Hyungwon. Hyungwon is pretty, he knows, and this is a common occurrence, so he’s mastered the art of polite indifference in the face of overdone flirtation.

 

He keeps a vague smile plastered on his face and lets his gaze wander from the woman in front of him, until she’s done taking orders and announces, “My name is Mina, by the way,” looking directly at Hyungwon. And then leaves, thankfully.

 

It takes Seulgi about two seconds to start snorting, leaning into Jooheon’s shoulder in the seat next to her. Hyunwoo is chuckling along with her.

 

“Ugh. Seulgi, shut up. You wouldn’t like it if it happened every damn day to you.” Hyungwon downs the glass of soju in front of him. He wasn’t supposed to drink all that much tonight, he thinks, but oh well. Hyungwon deserves the comfort.

 

“It’s just--every damn time, without fail,” Seulgi chokes out. “Everyone goes _crazy_ over you. Amazing to watch.”

 

Hyungwon shrugs. “Yeah. We know, I’m pretty. It’s quite obvious.”

 

“She was pretty hot herself, though,” Hyunwoo interjects. “You could’ve shown something besides blatant disdain for once.”

 

She _is_ pretty hot, the waitress. Mina. Slender, tall, filled in in just the right places, elegant in even the most mundane uniform she wears. Ah, yes, elegant is the perfect word, Hyungwon thinks. Mina’s face, too, delicately arches and smooth planes like satin, and her hair, a pitch black that ripples at her every movement. Beautiful. Fit for a model, Hyungwon decides. She would go perfectly with the spread he’s finishing for next month’s issue of the magazine.

 

“Please, I’m not into that stuff,” Hyungwon tells Hyunwoo.

 

“You’re not into girls?” Jooheon asks then, an eyebrow raised.

 

“No, it’s not that.” Hyungwon waves a hand in the air. “You know. Just not interested in those things. Relationships. Dating. Whatever you call it.” He never has been, really. He hasn’t had a relationship that was more than a fling, and even those he can count on one hand. The rare occasions when he needs to blow off steam, he goes clubbing and then into bed with a girl. It’s easy, effortless because the girls are all over him whether he wants them to be or not. Too easy.

 

“Ah, you’re in it for the sex then?” Jooheon tries to understand.

 

Seulgi hums knowingly. “She might be up for that, who knows.”

 

Hyungwon rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not interested in fucking her either, Seulgi.” Those instances are rare, four or five times a year at most. “Would want to work with her, though,” he adds. “She’s perfect for that spread I’m doing for the April issue.”

 

“Seriously, you’re still working on that?” Hyunwoo asks. “I thought it would get handed off to someone else when management made the decision to add you to the app project.”

 

“They couldn’t find anyone that fit what I was trying to do on a short notice,” Hyungwon explains. “It’s sort of particular and I’d really rather finish it off than see someone else do a shitty job of it. She would be _so_ perfect in it,” he trails off wistfully.

 

“Hyungwon,” Seulgi gives him with her signature _I-am-the-exasperated-mother-of-a-dozen-manchildren_ look. “You know you’re not really at the liberty to pick random people off the street, right?”

 

“But that’s what happened to me,” Hyungwon counters. He knows he can’t, but he wishes he could, and who is Hyungwon to refuse an opportunity to bicker?

 

“You’re an editor, not a scout for an agency.”

 

“And as a former model, I know _damn_ well that she would be perfect for it.”

 

“But,” Hyunwoo says, “that has nothing to do with it. Models aren’t supposed to have creative control over the shoot or really, opinions about it, you know? They’re just there to do their jobs. Model.”

 

“Mm. Yeah, I know,” Hyungwon responds, fingers curling around his soju glass. “That’s sort of why I left in the first place.”

 

“Model to a fashion editor,” Jooheon comments, “That’s impressive.”

 

Their food arrives then, interrupting the conversation. It dies permanently as everyone digs in, occasional comments and murmurs disrupting the concentrated silence. Hyungwon enjoys his shrimp, but he’s distracted, unable to banish thoughts of the work that awaits him tomorrow and still suffering from a lingering headache. Feels a flicker of annoyance when Wonho and the coffee incident cross his mind.

 

The app they’re working on, the one for the magazine, is supposed to function as a new platform for their content. “Print media is suffering,” Kihyun had explained. “The sooner we make the switch—and make it successfully—the better.”

 

Hyungwon isn’t entirely fond of it, preferring the print form, but it’s his job and it’s for two months, two months after which he can continue working on what he likes better.

 

And then he’s thinking of all the work that awaits him, the two meetings that he has scheduled for tomorrow. Hyungwon groans, eyes the soju bottles crowded in the middle of the table. It can’t hurt, one more glass, and he deserves it.

 

He downs a shot, and then another, and then another.

  
  
(Seulgi has to drag him into the apartment building from the taxi, his slurred shouts of _“Shrimp! Shrimp! Shrimp!”_ echoing through the dark of the quiet street.)


End file.
